Tag: grief

One of the things I love about my state of Michigan is the thunderstorms we get in the spring. Because of Lake Michigan the weather can become severe as it blows onto the shore from the west. This makes for heaving thunder and lightning when things really get stirred up!! I don’t know about you . . . but storms affect me on a spiritual level. There is a feeling of release as the sky flashes and rumbles, and then, a cleansing when the rain falls in heavy drops onto the land. I find the storms both invigorating and calming.

I live nearly forty miles inland from the lake. Sadly, often times the storms will have lost some of their power as they reach Grand Rapids. About an hour ago I heard the meteorologist break into “regularly scheduled programming” to announce an impending storm. A thick line of orange and reds slashed the left side of the state map. There was even mention of a curve in the radar. This would be our first big spring storm and I was excited. Except about the lightning. That scares me. But that is another story for another blog.

Wanting to be able to concentrate on the incoming weather I came up to my room. (For full disclosure let me say I did go downstairs and sit by Stacey so the lightning couldn’t find me.)

Alas, as it usually does, the storm I was hoping for hasn’t materialized. Then I thought: in less than a month (hopefully) I will be living about ten minutes from the big lake and I will be able to see the storms, now in full force, as they blow into Muskegon. How lucky I am!! Then this brought me to another thought: I am moving from a city I’ve known for most of my life to one I’ve not spent much time in.

What’s interesting about this is I am moving toward something instead of away. This is huge for me. It’s also an important distinction for bereaved moms who are contemplating a relocation. Years ago, my counselor called it geographical therapy.

I had been sharing with him how I would plan my driving routes around certain areas of the city because they were too difficult to see. But then, there were the days I purposely drove through the painful streets because I needed to physically see a place Becca had been. To prove to myself that she had, indeed existed, once upon a time. During that particular visit, I had told him I just wanted to move out of the city that was haunted with my daughter’s ghost. No place, I’d said, was far enough. I wanted to run away. I didn’t understand that everything would follow me. You cannot outrun grief.

Late last year one of my sons learned this lesson, too. He was in Europe, Spain to be exact, and he found himself being overwhelmed by emotions surrounding his sister’s death. He even said the words: it doesn’t matter how far I go because it all comes with me. How right he was. He cut his trip short and came home to work through some things. Which I am very proud of him for doing.

Eleven years have passed since Becca was killed. Any move I might have made before this point would have been one of putting distance between myself and my grief. Now, I feel ready. The move is very positive and I think it is just what I need. Yet, there is trepidation.

Though seeing remnants of my daughter everywhere can be painful . . . there is also a comfort to these images. Physical places can be anchors and seeing them can help keep me grounded. On the days when it seems she was my most beautiful dream, and I am not sure she really existed, I can go to place I know she was and prove to myself that she was alive once. I need that.

My life will be completely different in Muskegon. I feel a bit guilty that I am leaving my child’s world and going to one she never knew. As if, somehow, I am erasing her from my everyday life. I’m not, I know that . . . mostly.

I’m not leaving her. Or erasing her. I am adding to my life. Enriching it with new experiences and surroundings. Fulfilling a lifelong dream to live near Lake Michigan.

In the past I’ve shared why it’s important for grieving mothers to do so much for others. Though I can not speak for everyone, I will say, most of those I have talked to have agreed it’s something we are compelled to do. Of the half dozen moms who have lost children, in my “real” life, each one has found a way to make the world a better place. The few who haven’t are still searching for what will be the right fit to do in memory of their child.

The reasons we do this can be as varied as each mother herself. From nonprofits to help children in need or to providing free clothing to those who are without all the way through to scholarships given at the deceased child’s high school. We must “do” something.

We know the world can be a very ugly place. The truth of what can happen to our precious child(ren) is real in our lives. We’ve experienced it. Having been (and being) at the very depths of despair and hopelessness we are more attune to those who are hurting. We can see it in their eyes. Hear it in their voice. Their struggle isn’t lost on us. This is something we can (maybe) help make better. So, we try.

There is also, in us, a burning need to make sure our child is not forgotten by the world that keeps moving forth. Eventually, our family and friends move back into their normal routines. Often times, when the third or fourth death anniversary (or birthday) passes by . . . very few reach out to us to say “hey, you and your child are not forgotten”. Realizing this is a slicing pain through our already fractured heart. When we do things “in our child’s memory” we keep their name more current in a world that seems to be erasing them a little at a time. Good acts that our child would have done had they lived.

Often times, though, we give at the expense of ourselves.

I am not sure why we lower ourselves on the list of “to do’s”. For myself, I know I didn’t think I deserved to be alive. I was an old 42 when Becca was killed. She was a much too young 23. I’d lived more life than she would ever have a chance to experience. I had children. She won’t ever know the joy of holding her brand new baby. I had a wedding. My beautiful girl won’t be nervous as she walks the aisle to her soon to be husband. I had lived plenty of years and I didn’t need anymore . . . she did.

When we don’t think we deserve anything we don’t take care of ourselves. Are we punishing ourselves for still being alive after our child has died? I am often ashamed that I managed to survive her death. My inner dialogue is this: how can you be happy? How can you laugh? A loving mother would have died, herself, from the heartbreak. You don’t deserve happiness.

Many times, we think nothing matters. Worrying about clean clothes seems ridiculous to us when our child is gone. Shortly after losing Becca, my cousin Tammy called me. She was distraught and asked why we bother to do the right thing when it’s all a game of chance in the end. I didn’t have an answer for her. I still don’t have an answer as to why. But, I do know we are worthing caring for.

Quite recently, a dear friend of mine overextended herself with a promise she made to four girls. Even though she knew there was very little hope of fulfilling the promise she tried her damndest. For days I watched her run herself ragged trying to provide what she said she would. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t come to fruition but I knew she needed to try. She could barely stand up straight but she kept working hard to give what they’d agreed upon even though the last girl she helped had stolen from her. Why? Because it’s what we do. We give, even if (and especially when) it’s at a cost to our own well being.

We have to be very careful that we don’t continually put ourselves in last place.

I thought I was doing pretty well in this respect. Turns out I wasn’t. Want to know what made me realize this? Ragged underwear. Old underwear I wasn’t able to throw away. They had no sentimental value (as if underwear could) but I kept wearing them anyway. While doing laundry with Stacey she made a comment about how we deserve nice things. I agree. But then I held up a pair of my very tattered underwear and she said: throw them away. You deserve better. And, she’s right.

Caring for ourselves has to be a priority. Giving all we have to others and saving very little for ourselves just makes this journey harder. Our souls can not heal if our bodies are neglected. Our well being, physical, mental, and spiritual is braided together. When we care for our bodies we care for our souls. The best thing we can do for ourselves is to care for our child’s mother. I know Becca would want that for me. And, I’m pretty sure your child would want that for you.

I threw the old underwear in the trash. Then, I took a shower and washed my hair.

If you are having a difficult time caring for yourself . . . try doing one small thing just for you today. Then tomorrow, add one more. You don’t have to stop “doing” for others . . . but put yourself at the top of the list.

This past Monday, I drove over the spot where my daughter was killed. My friend, Stacey, knows I try to avoid the north part of the city at any cost, especially that section of highway. She’s even shown me an easy off, then back on, so I can bypass that area. As we drew closer to the exit I would need to take to in order to do so, I decided that I wasn’t going to avoid it this time. Heading onto the segment of road, where my daughter took her last breath, was something I needed to do. I wasn’t sure why, though. I just did it.

I tossed and turned for most of that night. Sleep eluded me. When I nodded off I was barely under. The thin dreams, I did have, were full of Becca. Young Becca. Older Becca. Angel Becca. It wasn’t until mid afternoon the next day, when I realized that a new truth about this journey of child loss, was being birthed. My soul struggled with the enormity . . . trying to put it into a concept I could understand. The dark uneasy hours were labor. When daylight came, the truth revealed itself and was born into existence.

Grieving mothers must gather the pieces of their children that are scattered across the world.

Last week, I went into a grocery store that my daughter and I had visited, years ago. The layout of the store was the same. I could picture her moving back and forth, across the aisles, as she had long ago.. In my heart, it was as if I had stepped back into time. But my head knew differently. I doubted anyone, working in the store now, had been there that day we had gone shopping. No one would have seen Becca skipping around, chattering continuously, as I followed her wherever she went. To me, though, her spirit was still there. I could see her.

When I left the store, my heart was torn into pieces, and I was overwhelmed with feelings. Being somewhere our child had known, for the first time after their death, is very difficult. The only way I can describe the feeling of longing and pain is to say it’s akin to a starburst exploding from our hearts. The ache is just too powerful to keep inside our chest.

A small voice, speaking from the center of my soul, whispered to me on the day of this truth’s birth. The soft words said: “Yesterday, you gathered the pieces of her she left there that day. Your soul whirred around her and she was pulled into your being. You carry them now, and forever. You are putting her life back together.The pieces of her life are still there . . . for you to find. Keep looking.”

This thought makes me feel joy! It makes me want to sing! I can still care for my child in this very intimate way.The life we had together has not been destroyed completely. Don’t misunderstand me. I would give anything to have my girl back with me. Without a second thought I would give my own life.

There are days when the anger rages and I hate the unfairness of it all. Other days, I’m so bogged down in the sadness, I can only see a few more minutes of being able to survive this pain. Jealousy, of your intact family, comes to the front and threatens to spill out. Those are the hard days. The darkest of the days. When all I can think of doing is lying down and refusing to continue with this new broken life. The thought of watching the snow, fall from the sky, as it covers me . . . seems a peaceful way to join my child. Like I said, those are the dark days. And I know, they will always come. I’ve accepted this.

Yet, now I know, there are going to be days when I will come across a piece of my daughter, unexpectedly. A beautiful golden moment where she existed, we existed, together. The initial pain will lay my chest open, yes, but it will also allow my soul to gently call to her’s and bring her home.

Our souls are entwined with our children’s long before they are conceived. They are tethered to us. Always connected. When I looked at each of my children’s faces, for the first time, I thought “well there you are!” They were familiar before I even saw them. They are part of us, and we, them. This is how it is meant to be.

My days will still hold much sorrow. It’s the price I pay for loving my child beyond comprehension. Now, I know there will be moments of blinding beauty and immense healing, too. What I do on my journey has become even more important. As her mother it is my calling to search for and gather all of her pieces.

Yesterday, I was getting another piece of Becca’s poetry tattooed on my arm. The artist, doing the tattooing, is the same one I used last year. We were talking about my daughter, and how hard this time of year is, and he said something that made me think: “You’ve taken something so horrible and made it into a positive.”.

I thanked him . . . but felt ashamed. I am a fraud. Or, at the very least, misrepresenting myself.

Recently, I was going through a housing upheaval in my life. I was completely overwhelmed and had no idea what I was going to do. The best I could come up with was to live, in my van, with my pets. Sharing my worries, with a friend at work, I unloaded through tears. After I was finished . . . he responded to me with this: “I see you as a character, you’ve gone through so much stuff, and I know you will overcome this, too. I’m just watching to see how you do it.”

He has much more belief in me than, I think, I deserve.

Others’ kind words: You are so strong. I don’t know how you do it. You haven’t let the world make you bitter. You are kind in spite of your tragedies. Accolades that come with a dark truth.

I may seem to be at this point, today in my journey, but it wasn’t always so. You haven’t been with me through the darkest of my times. Times I was mean. Hateful. Angry. Vengeful. Weak. Full of self pity. Negative. Immobile. Defense mechanisms that were completely destructive. Self medicating. Behavior that hurt those around me. Those I love the most. Compounded by feelings of failure, guilt.

I’m writing about this . . . not because I want the reader to heap more compliments on me, but because I need you to know that I didn’t head into my grief journey with it all together. I STILL don’t have it all together, to be completely honest! If you were under the impression that I somehow, magically, landed where I am today, I am sorry.

I apologize if I have ever come off as “getting it right”. This is an extremely important aspect of grieving to understand: THERE IS NO RIGHT OR WRONG WAY TO GRIEVE. Period. No buts, or maybes, or any addition to the above sentence. This being said, there are also very real phases of behavior that seem counterproductive to healing. We MUST go through these phases as well!!

It’s hard for me to revisit the early years of my grief journey. For instance: the years, when I was not the mother to my boys, that I was to my daughter, are very shameful to me. Notice I did not say I wasn’t a “good mother”, but instead, I was a different mother. I used to say I wasn’t good, but I’ve learned to forgive myself for the things I felt were failures on my part.

A quick example: In the first week after losing my daughter, I went to a group for parents who have lost children. As you might expect, my grief was raw, my pain at the surface. I heard two mothers talking about photo albums, of their dead children, they were putting together. I couldn’t believe they were laughing! My anger erupted and I yelled to them, “How can you talk about your dead children and laugh??!” They dismissed me with: “She’s not far enough along, she doesn’t understand.” That was the first time I felt like I was failing at grieving. I wasn’t doing it quite right. In fact, I was doing it completely wrong.

But I wasn’t, was I? I was going through what my soul demanded me to experience. If I had pushed down my anger . . . ignored it, or shamed it into the shadows, I would never have worked through it. This is my fear for anyone who thinks I am doing it right, comparing themselves to me, and coming up with answer that they are doing it wrong.

Please, know I went through so much to get where I am. I have the advantage of eleven years since her death. Just over a decade to unravel the mess our lives are left in after our child dies. Thousands of missteps litter the path behind me. I still stumble. A lot. But it’s ok . . . it’s a process. A long process.

In writing this blog piece, I’ve come to realize I need to do more writings about the dark side to this journey. The things I listed a few paragraphs above. Some that don’t paint me in the best light . . . but you need to know happened. Stuff others forgave me for long before I could forgive myself. These words have opened up an entire segment of grief that might be difficult to talk about . . . which makes it even more important that we do so.

There is no shame in being “broken”. Nor, is there shame in remaining broken, for some time. Don’t feel ashamed if you feel as if you need to give up. Sit down, take a break, and regroup. Reach out to those travelers, who are farther along, they know the way through. Their support and understanding can lead you up and out. If you are always angry, for instance, be true to that emotion. But, find a way to figure out where it’s roots lie. Jealous? Understandable, however, work toward releasing that emotion in small steps. You can not heal what you don’t face. But, please, don’t feel shame!! And, don’t compare where you are to where others appear to be. No one’s ground is that solid . . . trust me.

“Don’t forget her – please” are the words I had tattooed onto my arm yesterday. They are from a longer poem, my daughter wrote, about remembering the little girl inside of each of us as we grow older. To me, when I chose them, they told me not to forget about her. As if I could. Tonight, I realized they have another meaning to me: don’t forget who I was “then”, in the infancy of my grief, because that woman worked damn hard to get this far.

Please, don’t look at me in comparison. Don’t believe I wasn’t, once, where you are. I was, parts of me still are, and other parts may always be. Don’t add pain and guilt, because of comparisons, to an already difficult existence. Don’t judge yourself. Don’t judge others. Just help where you can . . . and take help when you can.

What would you do if it was your last day on earth? If you knew it was your last . . . would it change how you spend it? Does it make you stop, and think, when you realize one small change in your plans could set you on a path from which there was no return? Do the events of the future, lock into place, seconds before they happen? My mind is a jumble of unanswerable questions, tonight. A tight knot of facts and wishes and questions.

What was Becca doing, eleven years ago, at this time? This year, the date matches up with the actual day. This, somehow, makes the living her, feel closer. Achingly within my reach. Like time has folded, and she’s closer than ever. There is a tightness in my chest as the clock creeps closer to “the minute” and I know I have no way of reaching through and saving her.

Eleven years ago, I was working at a restaurant, waiting tables. I am unsure what time I started to feel the heaviness, that told me, life was going to change forever. I don’t know, at what point, Becca’s life turned toward her death. What was the hour that the drunk driver’s decisions turned him into my daughter’s path? Were they entwined from the very beginning? He, born in another country, became the deliverer of her death when he immigrated here? Did I put her, squarely in his path, when I decided not to release her to adoption? Why do I need to know??

The weekend, Becca was killed, she was supposed to go to my parents’ house in Cadillac. Her nana was going to help her set up her new laptop. Early in the day, that long ago Saturday, a Best Buy employee called my daughter to tell her the laptop wasn’t ready. Becca cancelled the plans to drive up north and decided to go out with her friends, instead. Was this the fateful turn?

My lovely, vibrant, beautiful daughter, stood in front of her bathroom mirror, and got herself ready for a night out. Knowing her, she probably blew a kiss or winked at her reflection, before flipping the light off. Did she stoop down and kiss her cat, Sarah, goodbye? Or, run her hand along her other cat, Blue’s, back? Did she shut the door with a, “I’ll see you when I get home!”
How can so many “lasts” happen, one after the other, and we not know what they are??

Ten o’clock, eleven years ago, is about the time the heaviness I was feeling, bloomed. I knew that whatever was going to happen, was going to be big, bigger than me. Was that the time the drunk driver, Joseph, decided to climb behind the wheel? Behind the wheel of a car, he wasn’t supposed to be driving, because he lost his license six weeks earlier from a second drunk driving arrest? Was this the moment my child’s life was slated to end? Is that why I felt what I did? Did my soul know I was going to lose her?

I spent the rest of my shift, restless. The drive home took too long. I remember kissing the boys good night, then going up to bed. Again, restless. Waiting for “it”? An hour, or so, later, my waiting ended.

The room was completely dark and my door was closed. I had fallen asleep, laying on my right side, facing away from the phone. Behind me, near the bottom of my bed, I felt someone sit down. A hand reached out and rubbed my leg. I felt it’s solidness and familiar touch. I lifted my head, looking for my daughter, but couldn’t see her. That was the moment, I knew with certainty, my Becca was dead. I knew, that when I rolled over, the light would be flashing on the base of the phone, signalling a message. The message would be that she was gone. My brain screamed at me to ignore the little red light. It couldn’t be real if I didn’t hear it. But, I had to know.

The words I heard were in my mother’s voice. Chosen words, to convey the gravity, but not the complete truth. “There’s been an accident . . . and it doesn’t look good.” Even now, I wonder about those words. Doesn’t look good? Violent death never “looks good”, does it? Did my mother already know that her granddaughter had been killed?

I called the police department to find out where a crash had occurred. When I had that information, I started to call Becca’s phone. Deep inside I knew she was gone . . . but I still tried to reach her. On the way to the crash site, I kept calling her . . . six, seven, eight . . .times. I am not sure how many times I waited for her to pick up before the line started to go directly to voicemail. I think that is when I started to cry. I often wonder, who was the person who had shut my daughter’s phone off, that night? Was it too hard for them to see “Momma” on the screen when they were investigating the crime scene? Or, did I just call her so much that I drained her battery in such a short time?

I’ve been talking to Becca all day, today. Laughing at some memories. Crying at most. Where she is, does she mark this date, too? Is she restless, knowing what I am going through, worried about me? Somewhere, in the same city I am in, is Joseph anxious, too? Or, does today pass over him with no more meaning than any other? Will he remember my beautiful daughter tomorrow? Does he wonder if I am ok, if her brothers are ok? Does he remember?

I’m exhausted. The grief is heavier than it’s been in a very long time. It’s pressing on my chest and making each breath painful. My eyes are swollen and my face is red. I feel a hundred years old. I’m glad it’s dark out . . . the sun was too bright. I’m envious of every mother who has her daughter next to her. I’m not strong today. I’m frail and aged and weak. My journey has stalled as I sit to mourn my daughter, tonight. I am allowed this time, this sacred space, to mark her passing.

Even though she is no longer here . . . it’s my duty, my honor, to be by her side, tonight. So, I will sit in the candle light and tell my baby girl that she’s not alone, this time. I will wail and I will scream.

For a years, I’ve gone over nearly every aspect of losing my child. I imagine there are ones I’ve not thought of yet . . . but I have the rest of my life for them to find me. I’ve healed in some ways, not completely (never completely) and there are others which I’ve not inspected too closely. Simply, I’m not sure I will survive them. Yet, they stay visible in my peripheral vision . . . waiting their turn. This one, the one I’m attempting to write about, has been heavy on my heart since the moment I knew my daughter was dead.

Each detail of that night is like an autumn leaf that I keep pressed between the pages of the book of our lives. Most are worn from being held, in my hands, multiple times. If I turn to one page, in particular, one I’ve skipped past dozens of times . . . the leaf is in perfect shape. Vivid colors, the veins still strong. The smell brings me right back to the moment my boyfriend stepped out of the back of the police chaplain’s car.

I could tell by the look on his face that the young woman’s body was that of my daughter, Becca. As he held me, he told me they had allowed him to kiss her still warm forehead. I kept screaming, “I need to help her . . . I need to help her!” Later, he told me her spirit had ridden back with him in the car. I believe him. I asked him what she looked like. He answered, confused . . . lost.

When I think about this, anguish rises in soul and I can’t help but think I failed her at the most important time of her life. The end.

Mothers teach their children about life. I wasn’t given the chance to help her through her death.

When I took Becca to school, the first day of kindergarten, she and I both cried. She didn’t want me to leave and I didn’t want to go. But, I knew at the end of the day, she’d be home again. I could talk to her about all the new things. She would know I would be there to pick her up and she could trust that I wouldn’t leave her. Our time apart was more acceptable because we would hold each other again. This made the separations much easier on both of us.

Her death, I couldn’t hold her after and tell her everything was going to be alright. Lately, I’ve found myself wondering what that conversation would have been like.

“But why? Why? How?” she would ask, confused, as I held her close to my chest.

“A drunk driver killed you . . . oh baby, I’m so sorry!”

“What do I do???? Where do I go? Do I have to leave you?? I can’t leave you, momma, the boys, I can’t go. I’m afraid. I don’t know what’s there!”

“I know honey, and I’m so sorry I can’t go with you. I don’t want you to either, but we don’t have a choice, my Becca.”

“But what do I do??? How do I go??? How do I leave you??”

“You have to be brave, sweetie. You have to be a brave girl. I know you can do that. I know you are strong enough to do this. It’s scary, I know, but just like when you went to school . . . I’ll see you again after, I promise.”

“Mommy . . . momma . . . I don’t want to go!!”

“You have to turn around and walk away, honey . . . “ even with these words, neither of us loosens our grip.

I take her face in my hands and look into her beautiful green blue eyes, “You have to go before all of us. I didn’t want it this way . . . but it’s what we have to do right now. I will always be your momma and you will always be my Becca. My only daughter. The one who made me a mother. I know you are scared, I’m scared to be without you . . . but our love will never fade. You are beautiful and smart and strong and brave. I promise I will be there with you one day. We will all be there. The boys will come. We will all be together again, I promise.”

I can feel her head shake slightly in my hands.

“Go now, my Becca, go and wait for us. Be strong. Soar through the heavens. Glide past stars. Dance in the winds that blow around the entire world. Play. Laugh. Visit us when you are lonely. And know, you are always loved. It’s been such a privilege to be your mother . . . you were my first true love, my girl.”

I would gently kiss her forehead and let my hands drop to my side, as my daughter turned away and bravely walked into her heaven.

The word “yet” was a judgement. She made me feel as if I was taking too long and people were getting impatient with me. She was getting impatient with me. She wanted to know if I was finished. I hung up the phone, but the guilt I felt for not being “farther along” stayed with me for a quite some time. I spent so many wasted moments wondering if I was “doing it right”. In truth, I still have those moments, a decade later.

I’ve come to find . . . many bereaved mothers eventually feel as if they are letting others down with their need to grieve. Not only their need . . . but how they grieve, as well.

In the first days, we have no choice but to grieve openly. Our soul’s screams demand to be heard. The intense pain is all encompassing and there is nothing we can do but be in it. There isn’t a way to keep it contained, even if we try, there just isn’t. That kind of anguish can not be controlled. So don’t expect us to do it. If our grief is too much for you then walk away. We don’t need the added weight upon our overburdened shoulders.

As the months pass, and enough people have shown us (or told us outright) that our grief is getting to be “a bit too much”, we learn to hide it. Cover it with a fake smile or a mumbled “I’m alright” when asked how we are doing. We are becoming masters of illusion as to not upset your world. Or, we stop going out as often, not wanting to see the disappointment from others. It’s easier to be alone with the grief. In solitude, we can be who we are. Grieving mothers. Broken and crying.

I wish I could truly convey how I am doing, some days, so you would understand. I know most bereaved mothers, myself included (usually), wouldn’t wish this pain on any one else. But, oh, there are times when I want a callous person to feel what I am feeling.

Do you remember the movie from the mid 90’s, about a young man who is sensitive and other worldly? There is a scene in which the lead character, Powder, uses his supernatural abilities to try to change a man. Powder grabs the arm of a seasoned hunter and shares with him (telepathically) the agony the deer, he’d just shot, was feeling as it died. There are times when I would give nearly anything to have this ability. A way to immediately put someone where I am every day. Just for a moment.

For a long time (months, maybe years) we put on the face society wants to see, and navigate the world in disguise. We go to work, faking it. We participate in holidays, feeling no joy. We laugh, when we really want to cry. We behave in a way that won’t upset those around us. Because, we’ve learned our grief has an expiration date to outsiders. For others, there is a time limit. And for some ungodly reason, many people don’t have a problem telling us so. As my former friend did after just four months of living without my daughter.

The more time that passes . . . the less likely outsiders are to understand why we are still grieving so deeply. Do they think it’s getting easier? I can assure you . . . it isn’t. Does the passage of years somehow soften the pain from losing my child? No, it doesn’t. If anything, it makes it harder. Every dawn brings me farther from the last time I held my daughter.

There is a heaviness added to my spirit with the passing of each day since Becca was killed. A mother with a living child gathers memories along the way . . . as her child lives life. I carry the moments my child never got a chance to live because someone took her life away. How does one ever stop grieving the loss of a child as life unfolds all around us and we are continually, achingly, aware that our child is missing?

A few weeks ago, I had another friend ask me how I was doing. I was honest. I said, “Shitty. Labor day was the last time my entire family was together, so this holiday makes me very sad.” Their reply: “Hasn’t it been ten years? It should be getting easier.”

I can assure you, it isn’t.

If we are lucky . . . we find our voice and can say, with strength, I’ll forever grieve. I generally try to end my writing with something positive to say to the “outsiders”. But, I just don’t have anything tonight. Instead, I’ll end this bit of writing with words for the grieving mothers.

Grieve. Loudly. Or quietly. With your entire being. Don’t worry about what others think. This is your journey, not theirs. Their child didn’t die, yours did. Be pissed at them for not understanding, it’s natural to be angry. Tell them they are wrong. Or tell them nothing. If you can, explain why they are incorrect. If you can’t, don’t worry about it, it’s not your concern. Cry when you must. Scream at the sky. State your truth, whatever it may be, loudly and with courage. Society needs to learn about what child loss grief is and what it isn’t.

To outsiders, we may look crazed and disheveled. Wild and unkempt. But we don’t care, do we? We are beautiful and pure in our grief. Our pain makes us glow with an inner fire and strength. We have been remade from the inside. Our soul was ripped open and we’ve found the truest parts of ourselves. Make no mistake, though we may seem weak in others eyes, we are stronger than they will ever know. We are warriors and we will lead the way.

When you get to the point in your healing, when you can be authentically who you are at that moment, and you make yourself known to the world . . . you make the path, for the grieving mother behind you, easier to traverse. You change the world.